


Grow Up

by Abandonment



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blowjobs, I am stupid, Love, Love Story, M/M, Romance, Stridercest - Freeform, blah blah blah, flushed quadrant, growing up story, handjobs, romance story, yay I'm a bad person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 16:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15222935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abandonment/pseuds/Abandonment
Summary: Bro Strider never expected to be a parent, and he never expected a relationship to blossom between he and Dave.





	Grow Up

**Author's Note:**

> Since my last fic was kind of dialogue-heavy, I decided to make this more story-heavy. So, I apologize for the lack of dialogue.
> 
> I'm really nervous about posting this, because I love Stridercest but I have a very hard time writing Bro. I can't picture Bro as this uncaring, unthinking, unfeeling thing, which is why I didn't portray him in this way. I hope that I managed to capture some of the original Strider-esque emotions and such, but I might have failed. Also, I hope the sexual part of their relationship came easily enough...(I decided that I owed ao3 another smut fic since I've only written one).
> 
> So this was written for my friend but I won't embarrass her by listing her name, in the event that this sucks. So, you know who you are. :D
> 
> Much love guys! hope you enjoy it. I wrote this all on an airplane!!

Bro Strider had never wanted children.

In fact, he still distinctly remembers the day that his Kindergarten teacher had sent him to the Principal’s office for a discussion based on this very fact.

The teacher was petite and a little too soft around the edges. Her hair was a light color, like the butterscotch pudding his mother often put into his lunchbox. She had brilliant green eyes to offset the neutrality of her hair. And, just like the soft contours of her face and of her curves, her personality was never rough. Her voice was quiet and gentle, a voice truly worthy of speaking to a group of hyper five year olds.

She had asked, “Children, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

The question had yielded the same boring answers that appear throughout every Kindergarten class in America. “I want to be a firefighter!” “I want to be an astronaut!” “I want to be a scientist!” “I want to be a mad scientist, like Frankenstein!” “I want to be a mommy!”

Bro had sneered across the table at the little girl who had so boldly claimed she wanted to be a mother at the ripe old age of five. Although Bro could not quite put his disdain into words, if he had been older and more world-weary, he more than likely would have shot her a caustic remark, along the lines of, Better find yourself a capable man, then, or, But, sweetie—you haven’t even started your period yet.

Instead, Bro responded in a way a five year old could appropriately respond in an inappropriate way: when his teacher turned to him and asked him the question, he said, as plainly as he could, “I want to never, ever, evereverever have kids. Ever. I want to make my job be not having kids. I wanna get paid for that.”

His teacher had blushed as the girl across the table squealed indignantly. It was only when she began to cry that his teacher stuttered to him, “Perhaps you’d like to go sit and talk to Mr. Hussie, Bro? Mr. Hussie might like to hear about this…he’d be interested, I’m sure!”

Bro had walked out of the room with his head held high, incredibly proud of his disruption while being fully aware that he would continue to be prideful well throughout his teen and adult years.

So when Broderick Strider was faced with a young child in his arms, swaddled in blankets, his single thought was: Shit. She got me.

Bro did not know how to take care of a baby. He could barely take care of himself. It wasn’t even like he had been responsible for the child’s genetics or anything like that, either. One night he had come home from DJing (a gig he was lucky to have, thanks to his fake ID and his sick beats) to find a baby in a basket on his doorstep. A note was attached to the blanket--take care of him as if he were your brother.

At first, Bro considered giving the child up for adoption. But the baby lay in the blanket, his eyes wide and his irises red. The baby blinked once, twice, before reaching an arm out to Bro, making grabby hands, as if desperate to be held.

Ah, fuck. So Bro picked the baby up out of the basket and held the baby at arms length, to examine the scrawny little thing. He couldn't have been older than about three months old. He had a fine crop of white blond hair that seemed to accentuate his bright red eyes, and Bro wondered if the baby was perhaps albino. The baby stared him down, those eyes never blinking, holding a wisdom that Bro wasn’t sure he had yet acquired in 17 years of life. Then, the baby did something unexpected—it laughed. It laughed, and it once again made grabby-hands at the young and wistful Bro Strider. The Bro Strider that had run away from home at age 16, the Bro Strider that lived in a studio in one of the most dangerous parts of town, the Bro Strider that worked nights as a DJ at s club in town. The Bro Strider that was, remarkably, still a virgin, who had dreams of someday making it to Los Angeles or New York to one day become a famous DJ. The Bro Strider that now had a young baby to take care of.

Sure. Bro Strider had thought about dropping the baby off at the nearest adoption clinic and saying “What the fuck, it’s yours.” But Bro had underestimated the bond that developed in the split second a baby described as yours looked you in the eyes and laughed.

So Bro, with a heavy sigh, brought the infant to his chest in a cradling embrace. He kicked the basket out of the way and opened the door to his apartment, already trying to decide how he was going to budget for necessities like diapers and food and maybe even babysitting for the little guy.

That night, Bro laid the baby down on the rolled-out futon, square in the middle of the bed. The baby blinked at him a few times, watching him, a look of complete trust and adoration already crossing the baby’s features. Bro stripped down to his boxers and tried to wrap his mind around what he had just signed up for. He had just become a parent, whether he liked it or not.

He crawled into bed beside the baby and put a tentative arm around the figure, which was still wrapped in the blankets he came in. The baby managed to scoot his body closer to the warmth of Bro’s side, and as Bro watched the baby fall into a tentative sleep, he found himself smiling. I’ll call you Dave, little guy, he thought, and with that, both young boys fell fast asleep in each others embrace.

 

Five years had passed, and Dave was now five years old. Bro had picked a birthday essentially out of his ass, so that the boy could celebrate a special day in his honor. Bro had tried, in his defense—he deducted three months from the day he had found Dave, and decided that that day was as good as any to commemorate his birthday.

Little Dave sat with a birthday hat atop his head, slightly askew, with nervous, five year old energy coursing through his veins. “Bro!” he whined, looking up at his big-bro-slash-dad with an expectant grin. “Bro, where are my presents? Bro, are the kids from school going to show up soon? Bro, did you get me a clown? Bro, did you—“

Bro was afraid he was going to lose it.

He walked up to Dave and put a calm hand upon his shoulder. I’m only 22, he thought in his head as he looked down upon the kid. “I hope your friends show up soon,” he told Dave, which made Dave’s face break out into what can only be described as the cutest and dorkiest smile ever. His red eyes shone brilliantly with happiness and delight at the idea of his friends coming to celebrate this day with him. He loved school—had been excited to hop on the big yellow school bus on that day. Bro had even gotten up early just to see him off, and had been waiting for him when he came back. While most mornings, Bro didn’t wake up with Dave anymore; he was always there to walk Dave home from the bus stop. Sometimes, Bro would even hold Dave’s hand. Dave always felt safe when his small hand was engulfed by Bro’s big, calloused one, the hands that always had fingerless leather gloves on. Dave, with his hat still slightly askew, held a tentative hand out to his brother. Bro took it and held Dave’s hand in his open palm, examining the small fingers as they wiggled about excitedly.

The doorbell rang, and Dave hopped out of his seat, screaming with delight as he went to open the door. That was when the pandemonium started, and Bro was thankful that some of the parents from Dave’s Kindergarten class had come to the party. They knew how to deal with the five year olds much better than he. They took control of the situation—20 screaming, sugar high five year olds, running around the small studio apartment with inane glee—and looked at Bro with an approving smile. For being so young, he was doing an excellent job of being a parent.

Damn straight, Bro couldn’t help himself from thinking, with the slightest smug smile stretching across his otherwise impassive features. I’m a Striders, and we Striders do everything better than everyone else.

The party moved on quickly. Bro wasn’t sure if it was because he was having fun despite himself, or if it was because he was developing a stomach ulcer from the high levels of stress he was experiencing. They moved onto birthday cake (Dave had chosen a Toy Story themed cake, with Buzz and Woody standing side by side as candles) and Dave had fun attempting to blow out the candles but only succeeding in spitting all over the cake. After cake had been doled out, presents were piled upon the table, and Dave opened them all up voraciously, with the hunger for presents only a five year old can have. He received all of the standard gifts—although his favorite, by far, was a set of Toy Story action figures that must have cost well into the $50’s (we’ll have to send out thank you cards, god damn it,)—and none of them stood out in Bro’s memory. Until they got to the last present, which had been left in the corner of the table. Okay, it was on purpose. Because it was Bro’s gift. To Dave.

He picked up the small box and handed it to Dave with an edge of nervousness to his movements. Dave was probably the only person in the world who Bro sought approval from, which was somewhat ironic, because Dave looked up to Bro as only a young boy can look up to his male role model. Dave shook the box and grinned up at Bro—“What is it? I can hear it rattling!”

Bro shook his head. “Open it up, little guy,” was all he said, as he pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

Dave ripped off the paper and opened the box to find a pair of sunglasses in the shape of isosceles triangles, just like the ones his big brother wore. Dave didn’t even say anything as he stared at them.

“Do you like ‘em?” Bro asked, afraid he may have accidentally picked a crappy gift. Maybe he should have gone for the set of Pixar movies that he saw for pretty cheap—those wouldn’t have gone wrong, after all, what five year old isn’t enamored with Pixar—

But then Dave burst into tears. He leapt off of his seat and rushed to his brother, bawling his eyes out as he shoved his face into Bro’s leg. Bro was bewildered as one conscious parent quickly snapped a picture of the events. Dave clutched the sunglasses in his tiny hands as Bro knelt down in front of him. Dave handed him the glasses, and Bro felt honored to be the one to place them on the little guy’s face. They were awfully big for him—his face was tiny and frail, and the glasses barely fit on the bridge of his nose. When they were on his face, he rushed headfirst into Bro’s chest, and Bro held him there for the longest of moments, as each parent in the room snapped a picture of the event.

Bro would never admit it in the future, but he still had each of those photos snapped on that day. He had them hidden in his pillowcase, and sometimes, on really bad days, he would pull the pictures out and look at them. He would look at the picture of Dave clutching his leg while sobbing. He would look at the picture of Dave holding the sunglasses expectantly in his tiny hands. He would look at the picture of himself slowly sliding the sunglasses onto Dave’s face. But most of all, he would look at the picture of him on his knee, holding the little guy in a tight embrace, holding on as if Dave was the only thing in the world that mattered.

When Bro had put Dave to sleep that night (taking the sunglasses off and folding them beside Dave’s bedside table), he realized one very simple fact: Dave was the only thing in the world that mattered.

 

Dave grew up, and his childish adoration of his big-brother-sort-of-father began to diminish. Or, at the very least, his eagerness to show his adoration diminished. Bro didn’t mind as much as he thought. In fact, Bro almost found it to be a relief. Sometimes, Dave’s exuberant affection waned on Bro, and it was all Bro could do not to bolt out the front door in an attempt to find some cheap whiskey and a girl to fuck.

As the years went on, Bro’s skill as a DJ increased, and he was quickly promoted to becoming the most prolific DJ in the area. He earned quite the salary, and would sometimes attend numerous gigs in a single night. He worked the soundboard for a local venue between seven and eleven most nights, and then he would head to the club, where he was lucky if he made it back by three. By this point, they were able to move into a two-bedroom apartment in the same complex, and Dave was about eight years old. Dave had asked if he still needed a babysitter, when they moved into the two-bedroom apartment, and Bro had thought about it before returning to Dave and saying that, no, it probably wasn’t necessary. So Dave was left to his own devices between the hours of sundown to sunrise, although Bro was always careful to at least feed Dave a healthy and nutritious meal of cheese pizza before heading off to work.

Each morning, when Bro came home, he would peer into Dave’s room to make sure he was okay. He would sit beside the little guy’s bed—not so little, anymore, but still scrawny as ever—and watch as Dave breathed slowly, in and out, through his dreams. On particularly bleary nights (when Bro had admittedly maybe had one too many drinks), he would reach out and hold Dave’s hand, remembering the times when Bro was the center of Dave’s world, and he was the center of Bro’s world as well. Despite the glamour of being a famous-ish DJ and despite the freedom he had so longed for when Dave was younger, occasionally, Bro would find a single tear trickling down his cheek. That was when he would abruptly let go of Dave’s hand, return it beneath the covers, and then head to his own bedroom, where he would lie awake for a few more hours before finally drifting off to sleep.

Bro had stopped meeting Dave at the bus stop when Dave was seven and a half and had mentioned that he was getting teased for it. So sometimes, Bro would still be asleep when Dave came home from school. Dave would knock tentatively on Bro’s door. Bro would open the door, groggy and bedraggled, looking down at Dave through dark sunglasses. The boy would look up at him, as much of a pokerface as an eight year old could manage taut against his features, before he would cock an eyebrow. “Want to play video games?” Bro would stare down at his brother and nod, curtly, once, before returning into the bowels of his room to pull on a shirt and a pair of jeans. Then, the two brothers would sit on the futon (which had migrated from the studio to the two bedroom, although both Bro and Dave had their own beds now) and play two-player games against each other for a few hours. Eventually, Bro would tell Dave to get his homework out, and Bro would wander to the kitchen to debate whether or not he wanted to try to be a responsible adult or if it was just easier to call in an order for pizza. Usually, pizza won, and the two would dine like kings on whatever type of pizza they decided to order that night.

It wasn’t that Bro and Dave didn’t have a good relationship. It was that the relationship was changing as Dave grew older and wanted to become more autonomous. Sometimes, Bro would find himself wanting desperately to cling to his younger half, to tell Dave to stop growing older, to tell Dave that he missed going to the park each weekend and that they didn’t have to pretend to be ironic towards each other all the time, that it was okay to have feelings, because Bro was certainly having feelings—

And then he’d remember that he was the one who raised Dave this way. He was the one who had raised Dave to shun emotion, to always keep a pokerface even in the most stressful situations. It was he who had taught the little guy the joys of irony and sarcasm, and of course, it was he who had let Dave drift away. Like it or not, Bro had to live with the consequences.

 

Dave was 11 when he had his first wet dream.

He had wandered into Bro’s room, dazed, confused, and mostly scared when it happened. He was covered in ick and it took Bro a moment to decipher that quiet whimpers that fell from his brother’s lips. When Bro woke up enough to realize that Oh, that’s what’s all over Dave, Bro immediately stepped into action and began to teach Dave how to deal with the unwanted and somewhat unwelcome changes that were going to be happening to him as he hit puberty.

It was about that time that Bro decided Dave was old enough (and, maybe, mature enough?) to be able to handle his own desktop computer. It was Dave’s 11th Christmas and Dave unwrapped a brand new iMac, which was his only gift that year, but his whoop of excitement and glee was all the reward Bro needed. He knew he had done well.

Bro helped Dave hook it up in his bedroom and Dave was off like a bullet—already bookmarking websites and getting used to the somewhat strange interface that Macs held over PC’s. Bro simply stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms held against his chest, and refused to let himself smile as he listened to Dave exclaim in excitement over his new toy.

It was about that time that Bro began to teach Dave the ways of karate. They would hike up to the roof of their apartment, katanas in hand, and Bro taught Dave all of the necessary footwork to act on the defense. They began practicing together nearly every afternoon, shortly after Dave did his homework (and shortly after Bro woke up). It was their bonding time, and once they got tired or had been going at it for an hour, they would shake hands and head back to their apartment to play a few rounds of a video game. Then Bro would order dinner as Dave watched a TV show, they’d eat, and Bro would head off to work. Dave would lounge around the house and on his computer, doing whatever it is that eleven year olds do during the day, before he would tuck himself into bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It was also about this time that Dave began talking to John, although Bro wouldn’t know about this for another two years.

John was the best friend that Dave couldn’t find in school. Middle school sucks for every kid, and Dave was no exception. Dave had still not yet found his niche, nor had he found what made him stand out from the crowd. He was simply an awkward, gangly teenager with bright blond hair and some type of bullshit “medical reason” that let him keep his sunglasses on all the time. He was impassive and everything was “ironic,” including his lack of friends. He spent most of his class time doodling crude drawings all over his notes, or reading action-packed adventure novels. Teachers called him a prodigy, and the clerk that worked in the children’s section at the local bookstore knew him by name. Dave would wander in with a $20 bill (left for him by his brother every night before he left for work), and Dave would pick up two new books that were sure to be finished by the next day. The clerk would recommend new novels to him, or new genres, or would even show him where the Stephen King and Dean Koontz novels were hidden. And then Dave would return home to talk to John well into the night, to the point where Dave was beginning to droop in class, losing focus and concentration as he whipped out his book instead of listening to the lecture. He’d write John notes, sometimes, too—about how bored he was, or about something funny that had just happened. Dave started getting letters in the mail, too, from this buddy John, and the two became the best of friends any kid could ever ask for.

 

Dave was 12 when he and Bro had their first strife session. Dave had failed English (What a joke, Bro had thought, as he cleaned up the strewn receipts for books all across Dave’s room) and needed to get at least a B the next marking period or else he’d have to go into remedial English the following year. Bro hadn’t even thought about it—the fury and anger and confusion he felt took over his entire being as he violently jabbed at the younger Strider, flinging curses wildly at him. Dave deflected the blows of the katana, but not of the curses. They hit him square in the chest and sunk bone-deep, until he was left a ragged lump on the roof, his katana slipping pitifully from his grasp. Bro drove the edge of his katana through the heel of Dave’s shoe—just barely missing his toes—and growled. “Bring your fucking grade up, kid, or else I’ll take away that computer.”

The message was clear to Dave. Bring your grade up or I’ll take away John. But, of course, Bro didn’t know who John was. Because Bro wasn’t a snoop, and Bro wouldn’t ever dream of sneaking through Dave’s computer.

But not even Dave was skilled enough to hide dismay in the state that he was in, and Bro knew immediately that there was something on the computer that meant a lot to him.

The following day, Bro hopped onto Dave’s computer while he was at school. To Bro’s own dismay, the computer was passlocked, and there was no way in. Bro thought about demanding the password from Dave, but then decided against it. He had to trust the kid. He had to have faith in the kid. It wasn’t okay to pull this type of parenting bullshit on him. It wasn’t fair.

So, instead, Bro kept a watchful eye over Dave each night as he did his English homework, and to Bro’s satisfaction, the kid got an A that marking period. The teacher smudged his grade in order to give him the A that he deserved, and Dave was on the track to take accelerated courses his 8th grade year, which meant he’d probably be in the accelerated classes in high school.

Bro couldn’t help the sting of pride as he saw Dave’s final report card. Maybe Dave would have a better chance at life than Bro did, after all. Maybe Dave wouldn’t have to run away without graduating, his only hope to become a DJ (although in Dave’s defense, he did throw out some pretty sick beats himself). Maybe Dave had a future ahead of him, One that was bright and filled with success. Maybe Bro didn’t have to worry. Maybe Dave was doing just fine on his own.

 

Dave was 13 when Bro came home from work one night at three AM. Dave was sitting on the futon, his legs crossed and a box of tissues between his legs. Bro was ready to huff and puff and blow the house down—it was a fucking school night, what the fuck was Dave doing awake?—when he saw the tears that were coursing down the younger boy’s face.

“Whoa, whoa, what happened?” Bro asked, immediately walking to the futon and sitting next to Dave. He slung an arm around the small boy’s shoulders (not so small, anymore) and thrilled slightly as Dave brought his tear stained face into his brother’s shoulder.

“It’s John,” Dave said through his tears, which meant nothing to Bro but he was able to surmise a tiny bit.

He placed a hand upon his brother’s head and gently stroked his hair. “And John isn’t gay, is he?” Bro asked, his voice gentle, so reminiscent of his Kindergarten teacher’s voice. He would never have thought he would have it in him to be gentle or kind or loving, yet here he was. Comforting his apparently gay “son,” trying to make sure that the boy didn’t cry too hard.

Dave didn’t even have enough energy to act stunned that Bro figured it out so quickly. He simply nodded, sniffled, and clutched Bro tighter. “Why doesn’t John like me,” Dave asked after a while, his voice thick with tears and confusion.

Bro peeled the younger boy away from his chest and looked Dave square in the eyes. Dave had taken off his sunglasses (which were a pair he had gotten for his most recent birthday, a pair of aviators that, when Bro had asked who they were from, Dave just smiled and shook his head) and his eyes were as brilliantly red as they had been the day he showed up on Bro’s doorstep. “Dave. Whoever this John kid is, he’s an idiot for turning down a Strider. We’ve got the moves, man, and being with us is like being with God. We’re amazing in bed and we make amazing boyfriends.”

Dave cracked the smallest of smiles, bringing his wrist up to his eyes to wipe away any stray tears.

“But more than that, Dave, you’ve gotta understand. Some people just aren’t gay. There are going to be girls that are going to climb all over you once you get into high school. It’s going to be weird and frustrating, I bet, but it’s gonna happen. And you’re gonna climb all over guys, and maybe girls, too, and they’re going to reject you. But then there’s going to be that special someone who feels the same way, and they’re gonna rock your world in a way no other person can. And they’re gonna be the one worth waiting for. John isn’t that guy. I’m sorry that he lead you on, and I’m sorry that you’re so hurt, but I promise you, you’ll find the one worth waiting for.”

The kid sniffled and mumbled “I’m pretty sure I’m gay” through his shirt sleeve, his eyes downcast, as if afraid of his brother’s reaction. Bro ran his hand down the back of Dave’s head in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “It’s okay, little guy. You gotta love who you gotta love, and you can’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Dave choked back a sob and threw himself at Bro, who comforted the boy for what felt like hours—just as it felt like merely a single instant. After a while, the tear-stained Dave had fallen asleep on Bro’s chest. Bro contemplated moving the sleeping boy, but decided after a few moments that he missed this type of intimacy with the kid. So, with one arm wrapped protectively around Dave, Bro let himself drift off to sleep, sunglasses still perched at the tip of his nose. Sleep engulfed him like a safety blanket of warmth, and his last thoughts were of being thankful that even though Dave was 13 and was probably loathe to parental affection, they were able to share this moment.

 

Dave was 14 when Bro first began to notice the muscles rippling through his forearms. They had almost appeared overnight. Dave had glided through the early stages of puberty with almost no hitch, his voice almost never cracking and his growth spurts happening quickly and painlessly. After the night when Dave came out to Bro, they had drifted together, but only slightly. Their practice sessions had grown the slightest bit more intimate, the gaming sessions more easy going, their rare but intense strife sessions more passionate.

Dave was just 14 when Bro realized that he was going to grow up into a very handsome and attractive young man. His build was lean and thin, the lanky, gawky bit already out of the way. He wore the aviator sunglasses with style, and Bro had to admit that they looked better on him than the triangle sunglasses ever had. His light blond hair fell in small tufts around his face and framed it just so that it looked disheveled but attractive. He had the art of nonchalance down to a T, to the point where Bro couldn’t help himself but puff out the tiniest bit with pride every time he thought of what a good pupil his “son” had been in the arts if irony and not caring.

Sometimes, Bro would come home from work on a weekend and he would hear Dave in his bedroom, laughing with his online friends. There was a Jade, now, and a Rose, and a whole slew of other names that he couldn’t quite keep track of. There was a Karkat, who he thought might have been Dave’s boyfriend at some point, but he was pretty sure that relationship was no longer. There was a Terezi, who Dave seemed to have feelings for, but couldn’t quite reconcile them with his sexuality.

There were also the nights when Dave thought that Bro was asleep, and he would start masturbating as silently as possible. But at age 14, he hadn’t quite perfected the art of subtlety, and in those silent-filled nights, Bro would hear the breathy sigh of release through the thin walls. Every time it happened, his blood would rush to his head and he would become maddeningly dizzy. His hands would twitch and his mind would become a blank slate. Those were the nights where Bro would stay up well until the sun rose, well until he was sure Dave was fast asleep. Those were the nights where he sometimes lost control of himself and who he was. Those were the nights where, with the blinds drawn and his door locked, he would reach beneath the blankets to palm himself nervously with short little thrusts of his hand. He would try to reason with himself, to tell himself how sick and wrong he was, how it was so horrifically bad that he was actually masturbating to the thought of his brother masturbating. But, at the same time, he would rationalize it all. After all, Dave wasn’t really his brother, and wasn’t it better that he get his frustrations out in the middle of the night and upon himself as opposed to upon his 14 year old charge? Those were the nights that Bro would bite his lip with concentration and frustration, a napkin ready in hand to clean up the mess he invariably made, and he would feel the threat of tears about to break down his cheeks. He never let himself cry. He would wad up the napkin, toss it in the trashcan, and will himself into a dreamless sleep. But he was rarely that lucky, and he often dreamt of Dave.

 

Dave was 16 when Bro began thinking of excuses to try to kiss him. He had gone over a year without being found out, with living for those nights when he would hear Dave’s breathy release through the walls. After the initial pleasure of it all wore off, Bro tried to medicate himself with women—lots of women—and even some men. He never brought them home, and it never worked. He would have one person on his mind during each climax, it was the single person he wished he’d never think about during those intimate moments. When it was obvious that this plan was failing, he began to humor the idea of being in a relationship with Dave. After all--they weren’t related and Dave was at the age of consent. Thanks to a lucky legal loophole, Bro was relatively sure that even if they were to get caught, he could fight it, and he wouldn’t get in trouble.

Sometimes he even entertained the idea that Dave could want him back. It was unobvious, of course—held within furtive glances and touches that lingered just a moment too long. As Dave grew older their strife sessions lessened, and their bonding time intensified. Dave was an excellent student and spent plenty of time hitting the books. But he always made time to hang out with his Big Bro, and would often sit just the slightest bit too close for Bro’s comfort when they were playing video games or whatever. There were times, even, when Dave would rest his head on Bro’s shoulder, his face impassive, and Bro would feel his breath hitch in his throat.

Maybe Dave did want it. Or maybe Bro was just delusional. Both seemed very likely and very probable. Yet Bro didn’t care.

As Dave had passed into the age of 15 into 16, he began to wait up for Bro to return home from work. Bro realized immediately what Dave was doing: he was trying to make sure that Bro wasn’t out all night, sleeping around. On the rare occasions that Bro was kept up late at work, he’d get an earful from his younger brother, and those were the times when Bro realized that Dave was jealous. But was he jealous of the attention Bro was giving other people as opposed to giving to Dave, or was he jealous of something else?

Most of the time, Dave would be dozing on the futon, a Smirnoff Ice or a Mike’s Hard Lemonade sitting on the table beside him (because Bro was okay with Dave drinking, so long as it was recreationally, in the house, and done quietly). When the door closed, he would awake with a start, rub his eyes, and ask Bro how work was. They would sit and talk about their days for a few moments before they both retired to their rooms to sleep or otherwise preoccupy themselves. And this worked well for Bro’s plan.

Bro allowed himself to get just a little too tipsy that night to give him courage. He walked home, having a hard time keeping his feet straight in front of the other, and he stumbled into the apartment with a dry hiccup. Dave stirred and turned to face Bro. A confused expression flitted across his features as he took in the fact that Bro was somewhat tipsy.

Bro sauntered over to the futon, plopped himself down, and stared at his brother. Dave’s cheeks were flushed the slightest bit, and Bro was sure that behind those sunglasses, his red eyes were wide with shock. As if the universe were smiling down upon Bro’s ill-thought out plan, there were not one, not two, but three empty glasses of 5% alcohol sitting on the table, and Bro knew that Dave was probably slightly intoxicated as well.

So Bro did what he had planned to do all along. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and brought his lips tentatively to Dave’s. Dave was frozen in time for a moment before he responded to Bro’s kiss, their lips working against one another. Bro’s lips were chapped but Dave’s were smooth, and Bro began to wonder if this was Dave’s first kiss. He tried not to think about stealing (what was essentially) his brother’s first kiss and placed a palm against Dave’s cheek.

Dave brought his face closer to Bro’s and a shock threw itself down his spine. Dave was responding. Dave was responding positively. Bro cupped Dave’s face between both palms, now, and worked his lips as gently as possible against those smooth ones beneath his. He felt himself leaning forward, farther, farther, until Dave was lying on his back and Bro was lying on top of him, his big body engulfing the smaller one, and they never broke their kiss.

Bro swiped his tongue against Dave’s bottom lip and Dave opened his mouth eagerly, willingly, ready to accept whatever Bro was going to throw at him. Bro let his tongue linger against the base of his lip for the moment, licking the inside of his mouth, his teeth, before bringing his upper lip down upon Dave’s lower to suck the lower lip into his mouth.

Dave’s response was immediate and it shot fire through Bro’s veins. Dave moaned and his body turned to putty beneath him, any resistance or even hope of dominance evaporating immediately. Bro clasped his teeth lightly against the lip and tugged, until Dave’s lip was released with a pop!, and before Dave could regain his bearings, Bro shoved his tongue deep into his mouth.

Their tongues met in the middle and swirled against each other, licking and tasting and feeling and it was all Bro could do not to moan directly into Dave’s mouth. But he wasn’t there yet. He could feel Dave’s body responding to the feelings of slick heat that was passing between them, and Bro couldn’t help his own body from responding in kind. He ground his hips against Dave’s, and that was when a soft moan fell from his lips, directly into Dave’s mouth, before he picked up the pace and began to almost hungrily devour Dave’s lips. It wasn’t as if Dave wasn’t responding similarly. Dave lifted his hips to meet the friction between their jeans and replied to the kiss in kind, just as eager, just as desperate, just as wanting. Bro realized that the hidden words inside that kiss were simple. They spoke that, for many nights that Bro had stayed up, thinking of Dave, Dave had felt the same, too. The feeling was mutual, and it surged through Bro’s body like an electric current. Dave had wanted him just as much as he had wanted him, and maybe for as long.

Bro loathed the idea of the kiss going any farther than it already had—at least in the first night. They had been kissing for well into an hour, hands tangling into hair and tugging, lightly. Bro had lifted his lips off of Dave’s to kiss down his neck, further past his collarbone, until he suckled deep at the base (past what any shirt would reasonably reveal). Dave’s hands had clutched tightly to Bro’s shoulders then, and small sounds escaped his lips with each flick of the tongue or press of the lips that Bro bestowed upon his chest. Bro was only satisfied when he left a deep, purple welt upon the skin, sure that it would last long and would be a reminder of the kiss for days to come.

It was then that Bro pulled himself off of his brother, knowing that he wanted more, desperate for more, but knowing it had to stop. Because Bro wasn’t going to let Dave be a one night stand, a date-and-then-fuck. Dave whined and clutched at Bro’s shirt, and it was all Bro could do to resist. He had never seen someone look so damned attractive before, and he was sure, for a moment, that his brain had broken. Instead of responding to Dave’s pleading, he leant down and whispered, “Tomorrow night”, and left to his bedroom to relieve some of the pressure between his legs.

 

The following night, when Bro returned from work, Dave was awake and waiting expectantly. Bro had desperately tried to finish his work early, and he sped walked home—refusing any drinks thankful (and drunk) patrons had attempted to buy him. When he opened the door into the apartment, Dave stood up and strode confidently over to his brother. They stared at each other for a single moment—eyes hidden behind thick, dark reflective lenses—before they latched themselves onto each other in a deep kiss, both sober and both desperate for a continuation of the night before.

It didn’t take either of their bodies long to respond to the kissing, to the touching, to the feathery light touches Bro drew across Dave’s body. They were back on the futon and Bro had wrangled Dave’s shirt off and up above his head, and Bro was pressing kisses against his chest and touches against his hips. The hickey from the night before stood out brilliantly against Dave’s pale skin, and with each kiss, ave threaded his fingers into Bro’s hair and trust his chest up the slightest bit into the wet feeling of Bro’s mouth.

Bro found his way down to the tip of Dave’s boxers (since Dave had been in his sleepwear, as if cognizant of what was obviously to come), and he pressed kisses where the band met his smooth stomach. Dave’s response was immediate and more than enough inspiration for Bro; Dave had sighed out a loose “Oh, yes,,” proof of emotion, something that Bro had not heard in years. It was approval, it was recognition that there was something between them. Bro hooked his fingers in the wasteband of Dave’s boxers and tugged them down, freeing the desperate erection they had hidden. Dave sighed with relief as the pressure was taken off of his dick, and he threaded his fingers into Bro’s hair (Bro’s hat and sunglasses long disgarded). Bro kissed the base of Dave’s penis before dragging his tongue against the underside, slow and painfully wet and warm. Dave’s grip tightened and he whimpered, trying not to thrust his hips into the promising warmth. Bro placed two hands firmly on his brother’s hips before swirling his tongue experimentally around Dave’s tip. He was met with the salty taste of precum, and Bro lapped it up, taking in and swallowing it all while bringinh his mouth deeper and deeper around Dave’s dick.

For being 16, Dave wasn’t small. In fact, he was a pretty damn good size, if Bro could say so himself, and he couldn’t help a small welling of pride to rush through him as he began to deepthroat Dave. Dave was making the most delicious sounds above him as Bro ran his tongue all around his length while slowly bringing Dave’s cock deeper and deeper into his throat. Dave was all sighs and moans and when Bro pulled himself away, slowly bringing his lips back to Dave’s tip, Dave whimpered. Bro then, once again, slowly brought his lips back down, this time managing to swallow his gag reflex all the way, bringing his lips to touch the base of Dave’s stomach, and he felt the shudder that wracked through Dave’s body, all the way to his pulsing dick.

That was when Bro slowly let go of Dave’s hips, giving Dave the silent “okay” to begin thrusting into Bro’s mouth. And that was exactly what he did. Dave wasted no time as he lifted his hips in and out of Bro’s mouth, hitting the back of Bro’s throat as Bro concentrated on (a) not choking and (b) managing to swallow and lick and apply as much warmth and pressure as possible to Dave’s dick. Dave was beyond the point of making sounds, now, fingers tightening in Bro’s hair, words falling thick and fast out of his mouth so fast and so jumbled that Bro couldn’t make them out. They sounded a lot like “oh god oh god” and “fuck, fuck, Bro, fuck,” which were both phrases that were quite alright with Bro.

Dave didn’t last long—how could he? Bro was relatively sure the kid was a virgin. Dave tensed and thrust one final time as Bro sucked, and then suddenly Bro’s mouth was being filled wih salty, thick, warm fluid. Bro gulped down every drop he could, suckling gently on the surely sensitive tip. Dave was breathing heavily after he finished, and Bro slowly brought his face up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he made eye contact with Dave.

And then they were kissing again, Dave leaning forward to grind his lips hungrily against Bro’s, and Bro was sure that the taste of his own spunk was probably skeeving Dave out the slightest bit. But all that mattered was the feeling of their lips against each other, and then suddenly Dave’s hands were working on Bro’s jeans, unbuttoning them, pulling them down, pulling down his boxers, until Bro’s dick was free, too.

Dave’s breath hitched and he looked up at his brother almost nervously. “I—I’ve—“

“It’s okay,” Bro said, and he picked up Dave’s hand. It was so oddly reminiscent of the time when Dave was young, and he had held his brother’s hand in his palm. Except this time, Bro brought Dave’s hand to his dick, and he showed Dave how to jerk another guy off. “Pretend it’s you,” Bro breathed against Dave’s ear, and he felt the shudder run through the boy for the second time that night.

Dave’s hand was awkward and bumbling at first, before he was able to pick up a rhythm and gain his composure and confidence. Once he managed to do that, it was smooth sailing from there. He palmed Bro’s dick and Bro threw his head back, breathing heavily through his mouth, his eyes closed in exquisite agony at the pace Dave was keeping. Bro began to slightly push his hips forward, rocking back in forth in time with Dave’s hand movements, until they had a rhythm worthy of two DJ’s working together. It wasn’t much longer after that point when Bro found himself close to the edge, gritting his teeth and sighing through closed lips, trying to keep quiet but unable to through the feeling of Dave’s hand engulfing his own dick.

And then he was coming, jizz flying up onto his shirt and all over Dave’s hand. Bro’s body went limp and Dave let go, bringing a hesitant hand to his lips before licking the sticky white stuff off of his palm, cleaning himself up. He grinned slightly before wrapping his arms around Bro and curling up against his chest.

Bro wrapped his arms around Dave, much like they had when he was younger, and he couldn’t help the tired smile from spreading across his features.

After an eternity had passed around them, Dave began to mumble in a half-asleep voice. “I’ve been wanting to do this for the longest time,” he sighed. “Even before Karkat. Even before John. I…I’m sorry if it’s wrong.”

Bro’s response was to pull Dave closer to him, closing his arms protectively around the younger boy. “I’ve wanted it, too,” Bro replied.

The rest was unspoken. The bond between them, the knowledge of what they had just shared, what it meant, what it could mean, what tomorrow may or may not bring. And it was all okay, as Dave drifted into sleep and Bro felt himself drifting too. It was all okay, because words weren't needed to describe what they had together.


End file.
